


Taints and Stains

by Sarah P (musiclily88)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/Sarah%20P
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-HBP</p><p>Pansy and Draco angst. Violent and sexy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Onto Pansy's Revenge

“Hey, lover, you alright?” Pansy asked jovially.

Draco wiped a pearl of blood from his chin. “Great, sugar. Barely a scratch.” He was pressed against a wall, staring at the lamp Pansy had just aimed for his head.

“Good to hear.” She was tiptoeing in the hall, her wand out, and she put Draco’s wand between her teeth, clenching it angrily. She was probably leaving gross little teeth marks, but to hell with it. Remnants of her anger. She as tempted to snap the wand right there, but thought it might be useful later. Plus, she could always snap it later, while he was watching.

He snuck to the corner nearest him, and then to the fireplace. He grabbed the only thing available-- the brush meant to clean the hearth. Shit. The poker wasn’t anywhere to be found. Just his damned luck.

A woman was rampaging through his house, trying to slice him, run him through, and generally fill him with shrapnel, and his weapon was a broom. Great. And it was not even a flying broom.

He held it up with one hand and steadied himself by holding his other arm out. Pansy took two quick steps through the hall and launched herself into the room. She tried to yell some spell or other, but Draco’s wand was impeding her speech.

She spat it out and stuck it in her belt quickly. She then pointed hers at Draco, completing all this in one fluid motion. He held up the broom like a bat from a Muggle cricket game.

“Accio broom!” she said loudly, and the thing flew out of Draco’s hand and into hers. His eyes widened and she smiled evilly, but she didn’t see the other brooms that came hurtling behind her. She didn’t know her own strength at spells.

One barreled straight into her head at the handle, and the other hit her horizontally in the back of the knees. Her legs folded beneath her and Draco pounced. He stood above her kneeling figure and took her chin tightly in one hand. Her eyes narrowed and she tensed in frustration. Her wand had fallen uselessly to the floor.

He laughed at her. “Aren’t you a sorry sight?” He crushed her jaw harder. Her nostrils flared as she controlled her face and spine. “So who paid you to kill me?” he said violently. 

Oh that was foolish of him. He would regret underestimating her here. He hadn’t been paying attention nearly enough. He would pay dearly. She gripped the broom handle fiercely and quickly swung the knobbed end upward, into his groin area.

“This wasn’t business, asshole,” she said, quickly rising to her feet over his prone body. She kicked his shoulder and stuck her foot onto his windpipe. “This was strictly pleasure. I don’t need the money, you egocentric prick.” She emphasized this end bit with an enthusiastic thrust of her leather-clad toe. Draco sputtered and gagged.

Pansy wished she’d been wearing better heels. As it was, she was in what was left of a suit-- namely, the worn pants and untucked white Oxford shirt. Half a sleeve and a few buttons had been ripped off, and her hair hung in sweaty and ragged tendrils. Her cheek and arms were highly bruised and there was a gash on her shoulder.

She smiled at the thought that Draco looked much, much worse. His nose and lips were bloody, a bit of his hair was singed, he had a very large welt on his upper chest, it was likely he’d broken a finger or two, and he was choking. Look what she could do when she applied herself.

His jacket was missing, or possibly burnt. So he was in a pair of black pants that had once looked new, and a white wife beater. Ironic, no?

“And here comes the best part of the job,” Pansy said vindictively.

Draco grappled at her ankle in a last-ditch effort to gain a breath. His hand gained a purchase, though just barely, and, with the feel of his palm, he shoved. Her heels, though not tall, did mean she had a different center of gravity than she would otherwise have had. She was good, but she was not that good.

She toppled backwards into the wall, dropping the broom and hitting her head. She gasped and cursed. Draco stood awkwardly and grasped her shoulder. Whether he did this to keep her pinned, or to keep from falling, or to keep HER from falling, well, that goes unknown.

“Don’t toy with me. I will kill you.,” Draco said, rasping, but matter-of-fact.

“Bullshit,” Pansy spat. Draco grabbed his wand from her belt and gently traced it across her cheek, then on her ear and down her chin.

“I’ll rip out your spleen and eat it raw, Parkinson,” Draco said, with furious difficulty.

“You always did have weird tastes.” She had trouble moving her foot up enough to gain much power, but she brought her heel down hard on Draco’s foot nonetheless.

“Shit!” he yelled, stepping back and doing his damnedest not to fall over.

“But it’s gonna have to be another time, lover,” she taunted. She took his wand from his almost pliable and still swollen fingers and summoned her own. He continued to back away; the flying movement of her wand gave him the moment of distraction he needed.

He sprinted as best he could to the kitchen and searched through the rubble. He merely found a thin, short kitchen knife for a weapon, and then set his mouth. He flattened against a wall, facing the doorway he’d come through. Pansy’s logical mind told her not to go into the room, but she knew she had to go.

She crouched low and tried to be inconspicuous. Draco threw the knife and it landed in the side of her thigh, with naught but the hilt visible.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed, breathing heavily. Draco stalked a wide circle around her as she drew the knife out of her leg with a grunt.

“Oh, did I get you? Sorry, dove.”

“Just--” she began, “a flesh wound.” She held onto the door frame so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She tried to pull her self up while keeping the heel of one palm against the wound that was spilling sticky blood through itself. She fisted the handle of the knife in the same hand that was trying to stop the blood seeping out of her.

“Admit defeat,” Draco said angrily, advancing.

“Never!” she screamed. She was trying to stand up straight without seeing stars.

“There’s no one around to hear you scream,” Draco added nastily. She growled and threw the knife back at him. He swiveled out of the way and ran his backside into a small table as he pivoted into another room. The knife connected with a wall.

“Did you kill your neighbors again?” Pansy asked, partially out of breath. Draco ducked behind an armchair, trying not to slide into the floor. The ground was slick for some reason. Ah, he spotted it-- a vase had fallen over and spilled water. And he was still bleeding, which couldn’t be helping matters.

“Draco,” Pansy teased. She sent a curse against the chair, blasting off a pillow. “Drakie baby,” she went on. She stepped into the room. “Draco Malfoy, get your sorry ass--”

A projectile came hurtling towards her skull and she immediately shot it down, effectively blowing the thing to bits.

“Draco!” she shrieked. “You made me destroy a BOOK!” Of all his transgressions, she was screaming about that?

He stood up but remained basically across the room from her and laughed wickedly. “Shut up,” he said, though he was pretty attached to the things himself. “So someone didn’t pay you? Hmm.” He inched closer to her little by little; they both had their wands out. “Are you a double agent?”

She shrugged. They were traipsing in a circle, each giving he other a berth small enough to still land a kick. “Not really. Free agent. I technically work for me and only me.”

“Slytherin through and through. And yet you have no reservations telling me this?” He smirked and gripped his wand tightly.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I have no doubts about getting out alive. I just know you won’t be getting the same treatment. I like dead men best of all-- they tell no secrets.”

“Or you have a dirty case of necrophilia,” Draco added, trying to kick Pansy’s thigh. Pansy saw this coming and stepped sideways and forward, grabbing Draco’s foot and pushing him forward with help from his momentum.

“You’d know more about that than I would.” Draco stumbled, but she jumped on his back and began to strangle him. He flailed, trying to get her off, but she would simply pull in or away when he did. He then rammed him into the wall so she dropped in a daze.

“Well, I’m supposed to kill you, anyhow, traitor,” Draco said.

“Wanking bastard,” Pansy said, spitting blood.

“Bitch.” He pointed his wand as she staggered to her feet.

“Your leader is a fool. Barely more than a child. He just wants what he and everyone else can’t have-- immortality. Crucio!” she said as she saw him suddenly move. Draco fell into a ball-shaped heap. Pansy was entranced and her eyes were positioned only on his floor-ridden form. “You always had poor judgment, lover.” She folded her arms silently and looked grave. “You acted as thought I wouldn’t kill you.”

She did know that’d take doing. She couldn’t Apparate out of his house; that was protected by spells, curses, and wards. Similarly, his home was most likely booby-trapped, especially if it ‘felt’ him die within its walls.

While he was still writhing in pain, she muttered a rarely-used and not widely-known charm that was powerful enough to knock Draco senseless.

How merciful of her.

She gracelessly levitated him to his bedroom and splayed him on his bed. She used her wand to bind his arms with metal chains, but left his feet undone. More frustrating for him if he did happen to wake up in time.

She thought he looked almost trussed as a stuck pig. ‘I can’t kill him while I’m here--I’d never get away alive. Either the house will trap me til I gnaw myself apart, or Death Eaters will attack me, capture me, and torture me,” she thought.

And that’s when her pyromaniac instincts kicked in; she felt satisfaction surge through her body and she smiled.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

She surveyed her insipid glamour charms in Draco’s cracked bathroom mirror. Superficial, hasty, and weak, but they’d have to do. She hoped they’d hold until she was ready to wash and heal in reality. She could NOT risk suspicions.

She looked at Draco’s listless form. He seemed to be at the beginnings of waking. Hmm. Good. Maybe his death would be painful. She could only hope, because either way she was running out of time.

“Vengeance is all the more sweet for the one who was scorned,” she hissed in his ear.

He sluggishly turned to the source of this noise, uncomprehending.

Too bad about those books. It was a shame about all those pretty possessions. It was a real bitch to see such a beautiful man go.

Sadly, she wouldn’t get to watch.

Pansy walked out the front door, looking quite respectable. Her cloak was fitted and plum-colored. Her black boots echoed marvelously to her own ears. After she shut the door and began to walk away, she put on her black leather gloves and stretched her fingers. She took out her wand and flicked it over her shoulder.

Draco’s house exploded behind her. She got on her broom and rose delicately into the air. She gained enough height to deem it safe and she made a lazy circle so she could see the blaze.

She wanted to watch it burn.


	2. Draco's Reciprocation

(Pre-HBP) A/N: I don’t own J.K. Rowling’s characters.  
: : : : : : : : :   
Draco stood outside Pansy’s house. He’d lost the little bit of a sense of humor he’d had. That bitch was going down. She’d broken into his house, somehow gotten past the curses placed on it for that very purpose, insulted him, beaten him, tried to kill him, and left him for dead. He’d never suspected she held that kind of rage. He knew she wasn’t any sort of kitten, but she’d had nothing but malice in mind for him. He was about to pay her back in kind.

He wanted this to be painful. No one would say he’d been gentlemanly, but that’s what happens when parents neglect their children. All he’d been told as a child was he had to live up to the family name; apparently he’d succeeded, but it didn’t really matter anymore. Draco’s parents were dead, and it was looking like his leader wasn’t going to win, either. 

Draco wasn’t so sure how he felt about that. He’d had his suspicions from the beginning; what kind of all-powerful leader can’t kill a baby? And now that bleeding Potter was older, it was simply obscene that he’d never been killed. God, even Draco himself had had the chance a handful of times, but killing Potter would be insubordination. Couldn’t have that. Potter was left for the Dark Lord.

But Pansy-- Pansy he could conquer. Her, he could kill. Maybe he would even enjoy it. Either way, he was going to avenge every bruise she’d ever given him, not to mention all the possessions and property she’d destroyed.

Not that he couldn’t pay for it all. But she was a blight to his reputation. She wasn’t fit to be associated with him in the slightest. Not anymore. She was a stain, and he would eradicate her.

He’d barely gotten out of his burning house with his life intact. He’d practically had to bring his whole bed with him; she’d chained him to it. He’d seen her calmly walk out of his bathroom, looking none the worse for wear. Once she’d left the room, he’d tried to wrench himself from the thick wooden posts. He was still in pain, and weak from the fight and Crucios she’d subjected him to.

He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten into his bed; he assumed Pansy had moved him there magically. All he remembered was the fact that he’d collapsed with the Crucio, and then a black distance. Apparently he’d had his wand clutched to him the entire time, and she’d been sloppy. She hadn’t noticed. Revenge does not leave room for mistakes. For whatever reason, he found his wand on the floor near his bed. Perhaps the action of splaying him out across it had dislodged the wand from his hand, allowing it to fall to the floor.

Either way, the fact that Pansy had not chained his feet allowed him the chance to throw his legs off the side of the bed and grasp for his wand desperately with his feet. It was a humiliating action, and he was deliriously glad that Pansy had not seen him. Not that Draco ever got delirious about anything.

He wanted to kill her now more than ever. It barely mattered that it would win him favor with the Dark Lord. That had been his original motivation; she was a traitor, she deserved being killed. There were no two ways, despite the past Draco and Pansy shared (just another vindictive reason the Dark Lord wanted Draco alone to kill her).

Come to think of it, their past relationship, or lack of it, was motivation to kill her in itself. They worked terribly together unless each was trying to kill the other. They were never passive-aggressive about anything, but they had completely and radically different arguing styles. When two people cannot even argue together efficiently, there is little hope for their relationship.

Not that one could call it a relationship; it was more of a partnership where each used the other to better their own status. Gossip-mongers said Draco and Pansy were only together for the sex. The gossip-mongers liked to pretend they knew a thing or two. The gossip-mongers didn’t know shit. That relationship was originally brought about by their parents who were looking for a “suitable marriage match,” not realizing Pansy and Draco had little in common besides a penchant for dungeons. Their relationship was hell, both for them and for those around them.

They’d known each other since they were children. They didn’t like one another then, either. Whenever they were together, they’d make life worse than the seventh level of hell for whichever nanny was guarding them. The nannies would quit within hours. A kid can’t buy that kind of power.

But a kid could certainly wield it. It was about intimidation and knowing when to fight and how to do it. Draco and Pansy cut their teeth while fighting each other, without even knowing exactly what they were doing. It was instinctual. 

They started quite young. Draco killed Pansy’s pet cat. She always insisted he’d done it, though there was no proof. She didn’t cry. Pansy Parkinson was not a crier. She was solid and rock-smooth. She rarely let emotions play a role in anything unless it was revenge. Emotions made people sloppy. She didn’t realize her own seeping emotions came into play until she almost got herself killed.

Pansy smothered his pet lizard. She never got in trouble for it either.

So, while the public seemed to think they were either lovers, or at the least, in love, Pansy and Draco were barely pretending to get along. It was for appearances. She was not attached to him, he was definitely not attached to her. She played smitten, he played aloof. It made them both ill. Each thought, for a time, that the other might possibly have some sort of lingering attachments, but there was nothing for them to linger from. It made the impending marriage a deadly thing.

Frankly, killing the other one before the marriage took place would just be easier.

The doubts started when each found out the other had kept secrets from each other. It was natural. What kind of relationship did they have, anyway? Not one where either felt obligated to the other, that much was certain. But they began to see the other as a liability, both to their own security and to the security of “The Cause.”

Draco would use his brigade of death as an excuse to kill her, and she would say she merely didn’t want a lunatic in power, and she was trying to cut off one of the main players. Lies, of course. Both of them were gifted liars.

They lied when the other annoyed them. They lied to be cruel. They lied to inflict damage. They lied to save themselves. They lied to give way to their own pleasure. They lied to gain power. With each lie, they would silently tense and loosen their muscles to keep from attacking something, each sensing the other’s alleged ignorance. They were gifted liars, to the point where Pansy thought Draco was a blithering dolt and Draco assumed Pansy was a simpering twit. 

Even as younglings, Draco and Pansy were ushered into Death Eaterhood. Rejecting that was not only not an option, it was simply not done. Traitors were killed. It’s hard to enjoy wealth and prestige when one is dead, no matter the “good” one has apparently done while alive. 

And, Draco realized as he stared into her window, apparently she’d taken up fighting with samurai swords. What the HELL had she been thinking, taking up a practice like that? It would mark her for death if someone had found out. Muggle practices were not looked upon with mirth by Death Eaters.

Draco ducked down and peered over the bottom edge of the window. The darkness outside could only keep him hidden for so long, if he kept looking like a peeping Tom. He chanced a look for a few more seconds, then sat down gracelessly to wait.

Pansy and a samurai sword. The girl whom everyone thought was a weakling was currently ducking, parrying, and lunging at an invisible target, while dancing and weaving on the wooden floor. As he’d watched, the sword began to swing faster and quicker, in light, intricate, circular patterns. She hadn’t even looked winded.

Certainly that was reason to kill her, as well. She’d lied to the Dark Lord, she’d become a traitor to his cause, and she’d taken up Muggle practices.

Eh, Draco just wanted to kill her.

But he would have to wait until she had no weapon in her hand, nor one readily available. Preferably when she was sleeping, or something equally innocuous. He smiled bitterly to himself as he settled in for an uncomfortable wait.

In some ways, Draco’s rebellious mind told him it was too bad she had to die. Even though he loathed her, she could have been useful to the Dark Lord, if she’d behaved. She was a decent fighter, and stubborn as steel. Draco never would have been able to tolerate marrying her, though, that much he knew. Any unholy union between Pansy and himself would unravel even quicker than his parents’ had.

His parents have been relatively devoted to one another, no matter how dysfunctional they were. Lucius, however, grew increasingly loyal to the Death Eaters, which annoyed Narcissa. Once he’d escaped Azkaban (it had been laughably simple), he’d become even more instrumental to the Dark Lord’s plans. Narcissa had claimed she understood, but inwardly she seethed. She did not want a divided home.

In the beginning of Draco and Pansy’s seventh year, the organized Death Eaters had finally struck Hogwarts. There was relatively no warning; the students spying from the inside gave off no notices. They also didn’t participate in the fighting. Hogwarts put up a bombastic fight, but in the end, it was nothing but pride. Of the students who could and did fight, roughly only a third remained. Draco thought that ought to teach the jumped-up filth to mind their manners and their superiors. 

Lucius, as the Dark Lord’s second in command in that battle, had put himself in a surprisingly great amount of danger. He’d died in the battle on Hogwarts. The building that was once a school was currently being used as a center of battle, a war base and general insult to the opposing side all in one.

Narcissa got locked up in St. Mungo’s. Draco still didn’t think she’d gone insane, but he knew trying to get her out now would do no good. He decided to get her out once she stood a chance of staying out.

Unbeknownst to Draco (or, as Draco was in denial about), Naricissa was being held merely because she was a threat to the Death Eaters. If Lucius had told her anything of importance… But her time at St. Mungo’s would discount any words that crossed her lips and landed on people’s ears. No one knew if she would try to raze the Death Eaters or herald them. No one cared enough to find out, they simply locked Narcissa away as an inconvenience, hoping to never deal with her again.

Contrary to rumored belief, Draco was not simply misunderstood. He did not like people. He was not secretly gay, nor was he pining after Ginny Weasley. His father had never beaten him. His father had mostly ignored him. He did not want relationships. More and more, he simply wanted to be left alone. At seventeen, Draco felt older than the ages.

Revenge kept him going, kept him boiling and seething in his own juices. Draco knew Pansy would understand, and he didn’t care. She had to know that, if he survived, he’d chase after her. She wouldn’t run, meaning the inevitable chase would be quick. She was confrontational, but he had surprise on his side. She was strong, but he would be swifter. She was cunning, but he would be craftier. She was wily but he would be sneakier.

He was a Malfoy, for fuck’s sake. 

And so he waited. Patience was something he had in spades, like money, books, and good looks. He sort of wished he had a flask with him; time would pass quicker with some liquor. He concentrated on noises he heard from within the house and focused on spells and hexes she may have placed to keep intruders away.

He circumvented her most dangerous ones simply by knowing how her mind and spells worked. The others, he gently picked apart with some tedious retooling. It was hideously easy. Surely Pansy wasn’t so stupid? Surely Pansy wasn’t taking his death for granted already? Apparently he needed to teach her a life lesson about getting too cocky; he’d enjoy knocking her down a few rungs.

He waited into the deepening and fogging night. Long after her lights had extinguished and noises had ceased, Draco rose like a cat. He slipped in a window that he opened, carefully silencing everything with the utmost care. And then he was in Pansy’s house, a house he had always loathed.

Pansy’s mother had died young, very soon after giving birth to her first and only child. Pansy’s father had closed up, began to act cold and distant, just as all the stories about Pansy and her father were supposed to go. She never acted as though she was starved for affection, which was just as well, because she wasn’t likely to receive affections from people she respected by acting needy. Instead, she acted out her aggression. Easier and neater for all involved.

Draco edged his way into the hallway, which he knew was covered in an ugly beige color. He hated beige; it was the color of non-commitment. If one is to paint a room, thought Draco, one should decide on a bold color. One should make up one’s mind, and to hell with all the rest. Beige was simply too hushed, too placid, too nothing to even merit wall space. So thought Draco.

Then came the dining room, which held a long, marble table. The top of the table was pink and the colors swirled into nauseating patterns; it was enough to make diners of the dining room sick, which had happened on occasion. 

Pansy’s father was not going to sneak up on Draco and attack him. Pansy’s father had been missing for about six months. It was no big loss for Pansy, but her father’s disappearance did make her edgy at the time. Later, though, she rationalized that her father had disappeared of his own volition just to mess with her mind. Slytherins are always fond of pulling a mindfuck on someone, especially their nearest and dearest. It is a mainstay of the Slytherin lifestyle. 

The next room was a sitting room of sorts, holding a baby grand piano and stiff-backed furniture that no one wanted to sit in. The furniture never got worn in, and it stayed uncomfortable simply because no one ever sat in it. Ironic.

Draco knew without even looking that the stairs were in the foyer that led into the sitting room. The stairs were fancy and big, of course, because a wealthy family must be an ostentatious one. The carpeting was plush, the banister was deeply shined and lacquered wood, and this is where Draco stopped paying attention to what the house would have looked like in the daytime. He had stopped caring, and, as he reached the top of the stairs, Pansy’s room came into view.

Pansy had taken over the mater bedroom, just as Draco had at his house. The younger generation of screwed-up individuals usurping the roles of the older is the mark of a truly functioning society.

Draco had his wand out as he magically flung the door open and leapt in. He leapt in quietly, because breeding and training told him to, but he leapt nonetheless.

She was waiting for him. She stood by the lit fireplace, looking like she had murder in her eyes. “Apparently we’ve both been sloppy,” she said, holding her wand out menacingly. “I didn’t make sure you died and you thought you got off easy with the hexes.”

“What--” Draco began as she started to walk towards him. He stepped sideways and the circled one another. Draco almost ran into the bed, but sidestepped it.

“I have things hidden here you wouldn’t believe. You stepped on my invisible trip wire which alerted me of your presence. A sloppy Draco is a dead Draco.”

“No, a sloppy Pansy ensures that Draco does not die,” he said, sneering.

“So Draco did not die,” she replied pensively as they continued to stalk each other.

“I cannot die,” Draco replied mysteriously. As has been mentioned, Slytherins like to mess with people’s minds before attempting to kill them.

“And the immortal himself has come to gloat?” she said snidely, knowing Draco’s cocky attitude.

“You have to know I came to kill you.”

“Big strong man trying to show his strength?” she replied, pretending to pout.

“I enjoy revenge as much as you do, Parkinson.”

She eyed his form-- quite fit, if one was dealing only in appearance. In personality, the guy was worse than dirt. He was dirt with vomit in it, if that. He seemed prepared to fight; his clothing was not loose. If she had tried to grip it, she would gain no purchase, as she would have with a robe if he’d worn one. He was businesslike in his murdering. He would make a lovely assassin, because he simply didn’t care that someone was about to die.

“Doubtful, lover. And now you’re not in your own territory. How do you know I have not laid other traps for you?” She raised a brow and smiled warmly at the fact that his already blanched face grew paler.

Say what you will about the demented relationship Pansy and Draco shared; they knew how to toy with one another.

They were both edgy and still stepping lightly within a small circle. “I let you off easy last time, Draco. I normally play with my prey a little first.” Pansy was spewing complete shit, but she’d always been an accomplished liar. She’d acted a ninny for years, why not continue with a new charade?

“But you are the one being hunted here.”

“And I am not in danger of not being able to get away. This time, I can watch you burn.”

God, Pansy was creepier than anyone had ever imagined.

“Oh, do you suck blood as well?”

“I could make an exception for you, with your penchant for violence and all.” She said this suggestively, knowing he got off on some weird stuff.

The banter continued because Draco and Pansy not only wanted to submit the other to physical pain, they also wanted to torture the spirit of the other.

“What is this really about? Are you jealous?” Draco was taunting her; she knew it, and yet she rose to it. Fool.

She looked confused. “Of what exactly?”

“I never loved you. You were barely a convenience, a fa�ade, to pacify my family and the public. That must have killed you.”

“You wound me. I cared nothing for you, if you want the truth. You think I enjoyed spending time with you? You’re more delusional than I thought. You were always a show pony to me. Something to tote out for company, then to shove back into a closet. Perhaps a particularly ugly but fashionable lamp, at the most. Oooh,” she said in mock sympathy, “have I hurt poor Drakie baby’s feelings?”

He laughed mercilessly. “I am not the ugly one, Pansy.”

“Of course you’d choose that to harp upon,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Insecure male ego. Just fucking try to kill me already.”

“I do not kowtow before anyone’s demands. You fucking try to kill me.”

“Already did, lover, but you’re still here.” Then she waved her wand in an arcing motion and said something that sounded like a hiss. Draco felt nothing. His brows furrowed in confusion even as he smiled triumphantly. Something was wrong, but he had to pretend he didn’t know that. He stopped circling and so did she.

“I hate you,” she said, seething.

“I know it, sugar.” Draco was getting his own chance to mock. He feigned a lunge with his left foot, then went right instead. He side-tackled Pansy, undignified as that was, and brought her down hard, with her head near the fire. Her head made a cracking noise as it hit the stone hearth and her body was somewhat limp in his grasp.

Draco pulled back to see her face. He was still on top of her from the waist down, but his arms propped himself up so he could see her upper body. Her eyes were screwed up in pain and as she opened them, he saw they were watering. “Fuck,” she whispered as her hair caught on fire.

“That’s right,” he said cruelly.

Her eyes opened wildly wide and she surveyed the situation. His hips were on hers, and his arms were on either side of her arms. She could sort of move her legs, but she didn’t think she had much to gain with them. Her easiest bet was surprise. She made another hissing noise and Draco felt a searing chasm open in his stomach.

He fell backwards violently and clutched his abdomen. His legs curled up around himself. Pansy stood as quickly as she could, stumbling as she did so. She saw the cart near the window and madly grabbed for a bottle that didn’t contain alcohol. She dumped tonic water on her head and rounded angrily on Draco’s prone body.

“You always underestimate me,” she said with a tone so low Draco had a hard time hearing it over the bulging in his ears. “I set traps and you keep falling into them.” She stood close to his body as he flailed. “I’ve always wanted to see you writhing beneath me.”

“You’re-- sick---” Draco choked out, wanting to vomit. As suddenly as the crush of pain had appeared, it stopped, leaving a dull ache that Draco was sure would last until old age. He could not let the pain distort his rational mind. He threw out an arm, sideswiping Pansy’s legs and knocking her over beside him. She rolled quickly and got on top of Draco, straddling his hips and shoving his shoulders down with her strong arms.

He was breathing heavily and felt ill. “You’re the one who looks sickly to me, lover,” Pansy purred.

He bucked, sending Pansy flying to one side. He sat up and slid, pushing himself back with his arms until his back hit a wall. He pulled his legs in front of him and bent them at the knee, as though that would protect him any.

Pansy, however, had knocked her already bruised head against the bedpost and was bleeding. She tried to shrug that off, and set herself to looking for her wand. She’d lost it somewhere along the way.

Draco used her distraction to his advantage. He saw that there was a cart next to him, strewn with bottles of liquor. He grabbed one swiftly as she turned her back to pick up her wand; he’d lost his too, but here was a chance to steal time. Maybe he could douse her with alcohol and then shove her in the fire. He pulled down another bottle, to be safe. He continued to crouch, but inched toward Pansy while taking out the stoppers to the bottles.

She whirled on him, trying to place a curse and a kick at the same time, and failing at both. Draco stood swiftly and lunged, spilling the contents of both bottles onto Pansy; one went on her face and one went down her front.

The alcohol burned in her eyes and she covered them quickly with her hands, doing her best not to whimper.

“Your weakness,” Draco said in a ragged gasp, breath lagging, “is your temper. It gives your opponent a very valuable weapon. Measured, precise, and accurate. All they have to do is grab it.”

Pansy still couldn’t open her eyes, so she settled for cursing loudly and trying to kick Draco. He merely laughed a backed away from her.

“If you were colder, calculated, they’d have a harder time riling you. You could be invincible, unmatchable, unbeatable.”

Pansy was smearing liquid away from her eyes, a nasty mixture of tears and whiskey. The images before her were blurry, but she made out a form and leapt at it. Draco stepped away easily enough, winded though he was, and he laughed.

“It’s simply too terrible that I plan to kill you tonight. You would have made quite a fighter. For a girl.”

Pansy hissed a curse once more in vindication, marveling at the joy brought by the scream that found its way out of Draco’s lips. “A fighter? You have no idea. I’m not even started yet.” She had a large rusty patch of blood near her forehead, but she did her best not to topple over or pass out. She gave him her best sneer. “Tired of being beaten to a soggy mess by a girl? Then stand the hell up and try to give me a beating. Because I can take it; I’m a strong girl. Very strong. Stronger than you, and you know it. You feel threatened. I can manipulate you and strong arm you and you‘re so sad that you just can‘t handle that.”

“Strong as a horse and just as ugly,” Draco spat as the pain began to abate.

“Just like a man to think that’s the greatest insult a woman can receive.” The relationship between them had done nothing to lend itself to education about the sexes, and both Pansy and Draco has skewed views. “That’s weak. Pathetic. It’s low.” She smiled as he struggled haphazardly to rise from the floor. “Look who can’t keep his temper now.”

Draco roughly smoothed his hair away from his eyes as he managed a standing position.

“You must be an idiot to assume I care what you think. No one cares what a bastard thinks, nor does anyone care whether or not the bastard has a pulse.” Pansy stood almost as though defeated or merely weary. She was wearing a nightgown, nothing sexy. It was long and white, and had a somewhat flowing quality. It was made of cotton with eyelets and fell nearly to the floor, but her feet showed out from underneath the pooling material. She made it look appealing, and God knew she didn’t try.

“Obviously you care whether he has a pulse, as you clearly want me dead.” Draco could not keep his distinctly arsehole-like comments from spilling out of his mouth like dirt.

“Damn straight,” she said with vicious contempt in her wounded voice. Her hair smelled disgusting, having recently been afire. She felt dirty and invaded and more than anything, wanted the violent man before her dead. She wanted to see him in pain, and that notion no longer surprised her.

No one is born a killer. A girl of five years is not created with sense and desire for killing. A killer is molded out of surroundings, situations, and desperation. The two killers surveyed each other. They surveyed each other for a long time, neither wanting to attack first, knowing that would easily let the other defend.

They knew one another much too well, and that resulted in them moving at the same time. Draco tried to barrel roll away to grab his wand and Pansy attempted a tackle around Draco’s midsection. This ended in a clumsy scuffle and Pansy ended up grabbing Draco’s legs. She tried to bend it improperly and break something, but she heard nary a crack.

Draco was on his stomach with his head near the bed and Pansy lay across his legs with her arms wrapped around them. Draco rolled again, bringing Pansy along for the ride and dumping her unceremoniously off to one side. He dove for her once he was able, but she swerved to one side as she sat up. Draco cracked his nose on the floor and Pansy landed hard on her hand; she thought she broke her wrist.

Draco leapt up and covered his nose with his hand; blood was already coursing down his neck. Pansy struggled up as well, holding her arm limply to her side until she had a chance to heal it. Draco muttered an incantation as she was swaying upright and she was blown back against the wall, hurting her spine. She was unable to speak for several moments, giving Draco the chance to advance unchecked.

Her body had crumpled to the floor and Draco stood above her, gloating and bloody. She immediately raked her nails down his ivory-pale cheek. Instead of backing away or gasping, Draco grabbed Pansy’s good wrist and tried to force her hand back. She grunted and pushed with the heel of her hand, which succeeded in backing Draco up a few paces and gave her the momentum to stand, albeit awkwardly. He still held her hand in both of his.

She tried to knee his groin but he pulled her forward and interrupted the movement. She yanked him backwards again, smiling wickedly. The two were ungodly terrors separately, but combine them and expect all hell to promptly break loose.

“You’re still bleeding,” Pansy pointed out breathlessly. “Better find a house elf to clean you up.”

Draco pulled her forward so that her eyes were level with his lips. “I’m not helpless, sugar,” he said in sneering tones. “But you will be in a few moments.”

“You’re getting cocky,” she replied, finally managing to knee him. “And that’s when you get messy and suddenly get--” she paused, looking down, “less cocky.” She peered at his as he bent over, pained, and then she smirked.

While still bent over, he grabbed her injured, broken wrist and twisted. She gasped and swore quite loudly, beginning to feel faint. She knocked him over the head with her good hand, which he’d failed to grab when both of his hands had taken hold of her injured wrist.

Together they tumbled onto the ground, which began a violent and rather immature wrestling match. This went on for a number of long minutes, with neither gaining any ground for long. Bits of Pansy’s hair got pulled out in chunks, Draco’s eye got blackened, a few buttons popped off of Pansy’s nightgown, Draco’s shirt got ripped, both got their heads banged, Draco’s recently broken fingers got smashed again, and Pansy’s knee got scraped fiercely.

Finally came a breathless moment where Pansy’s back was pressed into a bedpost, and she found herself half-sitting, half-lying, while Draco sat on her legs and held her shoulders back. She spat in his face, open with contempt, and then she laughed bitterly, much too bitterly for a girl so young.

This managed to bring Draco’s gaze to hers in surprise. She gently tugged at his sleeve, her first gentle movement all night. She tried to move his wand hand (it gripped her shoulder and the wand at the same time) to her upper chest.

“Do it,” she said, pointing a finger to the left side of her chest. “Kill me. Do it. Now!”

Draco frowned angrily.

“Just fucking kill me!” she shrieked.

“No,” he said quietly, thoroughly confused and slightly dizzy. 

“I knew it,” she seeped out quietly.

“Not until you tell me why.”

Here she laughed loudly and maniacally. “What kind of life is this, Draco? Tell me truly, is this your dream? To kill your girlfriend, whom your parents told you to marry, by order of some Dark Lord? To be told to kill her and marry her both for the same reason? For the same loyalty? This is not a life, this is barely survival. I just don’t care anymore. Revenge is sweet, but I had my revenge when I thought you died. I nearly killed you then, and I could do it now, but I just don’t care anymore. I know you don’t love me, but if you ever held any respect for me, just fucking kill me. Please.” She sounded mournful, she sounded wounded, she sounded young. She did not look weak nor defeated, but she looked weary.

“No,” he repeated, not realizing what he was saying. “You can laugh in my face, but I will say that I respect you too much to see you killed by me, like this. You deserve to be killed by a different person for a better reason.”

“Don’t go soft of me, Malfoy. Don’t do noble. Don’t act like a sodding Gryffindor, ‘Oh, let’s solve our differences with a pillow fight.’ I just want to die, is that so hard for you to understand?”

“How can you go from homicidal to suicidal in such a short time, Pansy?”

She exhaled loudly. “What do you care? I’m inviting you to kill me and you want to talk semantics?”

“You could just be tricking me into letting my guard down so you can kill me easier.”

“You’re too Slytherin, Malfoy.”

“Not Slytherin enough, Pansy.”

“If there’s any shred of humanity left in your pitiful body, you will kill me,” Pansy whispered. She pulled her sleeve aside, pointing to an area below her collarbone on her left side. She kept gesturing frantically.

“Why do you want ME to kill you?” Draco asked, not sure he cared anyway. He wanted to catch his breath and stall for time until he could figure out what the hell she was playing at.

“It’s a last ditch effort at legitimacy, to be killed by the late great Draco Malfoy,” she said tiredly, chuckling. Draco was still sitting on her legs, and they were starting to go numb.

“Late?”

“That’s right. Murder/suicide pact, we’d never be forgotten. We’d be legends. We’d be gods, we’d be adored. Never get old. Have stories told about us,” she whispered. 

Draco was still bleeding. He noticed another wound on his arm that he didn’t remember receiving, leaving him with a large total of scratches, nicks, cuts, and scrapes. He was losing blood. She was losing consciousness. He realized belatedly that so was he.

“Will you tell me a story, Draco?” she asked, delirious. Her eyes tipped open and closed alternately.

“I could tell you I loved you,” he said, also delirious. He rocked forward slightly, unable to stay upright.

“That’s a good story,” she whispered. She liked fiction best of all.

Her head slumped to the side just as Draco’s head met the ground. They felt darkness, and the next thing they saw was white.

: : : : : : : : :


	3. The End of Him and Her

Draco awoke in a sea of white and felt like a pendulum was swinging inside his head. His head pulsed with each swing, and he swore he saw bolts of lightning with each pulse. As he slowly swung his head upwards and his body into a sitting position, the pain intensified. He had difficulty opening his eyes a mere fraction of their normal width, which he took as a terrible omen. He scooted his body out of the tightly-fitted and constricting sheets and blankets, all in shades of pale cream. He sneered as soon as he was able; the room was intolerably cheerful, and he had just realized where he was.

Pansy Parkinson’s guest bedroom. Shit and damn and triple bleeding hell. To top all that he didn’t remember, he felt as though he’d been walloped with chunks of wood while simultaneously being thrown around in a bag and dropped onto rocks for good measure. He rubbed his stiffening neck as a revelation struck him: Pansy had done her best to beat him to a bloody pulp, and had very well succeeded.

Why was he not a mess? Why had he been sleeping soundly, if stiffly? Why was he not dead? Why was Pansy not dead? And where the hell were his clothes?

He sat on the edge of the bed, not wanting to venture outside its warmth without a stitch on his body. As he pondered the worth of moving, a stumbling House Elf worked her way into the room, muttering her apologies.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, Tinny… no, Tibby…” Draco puzzled over the name that he would probably promptly forget again.

“Tippy, sir,” she replied meekly.

“Why am I here?”

“Oh, why, sir, sir, wes found you asleep, sir, on the floor of Miss Parkinson, and you looked, sir, as though yous needed a proper sleeping place.”

“Why do I feel woozy?” he asked her sternly, wondering what had been done to him once he passed out.

“Well, sir, of course, we had to heal you, you took a beating or two, sir, and wes assumed you tried to get help and wes just didn’t hear you, sir, we are very sorry, of course, sir,” Tippy said meekly.

“Do not go through life assuming. Now tell me where in God’s name are my belongings?”

“Well, sir, they had gotten a sight bloody, and wes couldn’t have that for the kind sir, and they are being cleaned and pressed right now, sir, as we speaks, they are.” Tippy looked as though she was afraid of being beaten. Draco had learned long ago to never scare or insult the help irrevocably, or otherwise face a mutiny. He didn’t want this Tippy spreading vicious lies about him later.

“That’s all well and good, but I need something to wear,” Draco said logically.

“Oh, why sir! Let me get yous a dressing gown and draw you a nice warm bath, that should work out any pain from your muscles, sir, it should prove relaxing.” Tippy rushed through an adjoining door and returned bearing a black dressing down and slippers; she handed them to Draco and then averted her gaze as he got into them. He rolled his eyes before she looked back. “I have a copy of the Daily Prophets for you, sir, if you would like to read it whiles I draw your bath, sir.”

She left the room bowing; Draco did not so much as open the paper while she was gone. He needed to figure out exactly what had happened the night before, when his head hadn’t felt so muffled. He’d come to kill Pansy, she’d been awake and waiting, they’d threatened one another, they’d fought, they’d argued, and Pansy had told Draco to kill her. And he hadn’t killed her. He didn’t quite know why, except it hadn’t felt right to kill her at the time, despite the fact that he had come to her house to do just that. It would be useless to hate himself now, never mind wondering what he could have been thinking by not mortally wounding her.

And he knew she couldn’t be dead, because Tippy hadn’t mentioned it and she certainly wouldn’t have helped him if her mistress was dead. Draco expected loyalty from his servants, but he couldn’t realistically expect total loyalty from someone else’s servants.

Tippy bowed her way back into the room and beckoned weakly for Draco to follow her. He padded after her languidly as she ushered him into the white and black marbled bathroom. The bath, oval-shaped, was filled nearly to the brim with opalescent water. Draco didn’t want to admit that the bath sounded like a tremendous idea; to admit that would sound soft. Draco was not soft, even if he didn’t kill a girl when she nearly begged him to.

Draco stared at Tippy pointedly until she apologized profusely, and backed out of the room, eyes wide and ears lowered. He grimaced as the door closed and quickly extricated himself from his robe and slippers. He got into the water, nearly groaning as his muscles loosened. He was glad no one could see him like this; it was the beginning of a reputation he would never be able to live down. He’d been drugged and healed by House Elves and, more or less, held captive in the Parkinson mansion, and he was not happy in the slightest.

But he would be milking the situation for all it, or he, was worth. Maybe that would gain him something, finally, in what everyone else had deemed “a corrupt and messy world.” Through his haze, Draco permitted himself some self-reflection; baths allowed for things like that. His brows knitted as he thought about his constant dissatisfaction, even as he felt his legs loosen and become less tense.

Draco had been weaned on the concept of being always slightly dissatisfied with life. He had always wanted just one thing more, had always wanted things just a little bit different than they were, just a little bit better. He thought if his life allowed for one more thing, he could be content. He knew that was a lot of bollocks, he knew buying thing could not make him happy. He knew dating a Parkinson hadn’t helped, he knew sneering at weaklings would make no difference. He knew being friends with thugs and murderers wouldn’t gain him anything. He wanted power; he would have died for power. He joined Voldemort because of a desire for more, and intense need for more. He had once cared enough about power to be willing to kill for it, die for it, lose everything for it. The irony of his want of more is that he had lost everything he’d acquired to try to get more.

He dunked his head underneath the water, mussing his diabolically handsome hair. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to drown himself or merely sake his thirst. As it was, he broke the surface again and took a deep breath. His muscles were as pliable as they would ever be.

He deigned to wash his hair with the inferior facilities available in Pansy’s guest bathroom. The light that fell upon the floor and faucets was too brilliant and cheery to be trustworthy. Once he had finished washing, Draco stepped out of the tub, as he did not like to wallow in his own filth. He dried himself magically and wrapped himself back into the black dressing gown. Draco had a penchant for black; he’d grown prematurely old in dungeons, and felt he had earned the distinction of black clothing.

If Draco could immediately set people on edge, he had the advantage in a given situation. Draco liked those tiny feelings of power, the energy they sent to his fingertips. He liked the feeling of raw and unstoppered power even more. When he was younger, he’d known how dangerous that was. Eventually, he’d stopped caring.

Draco decided he would use his rare opportunity in Pansy’s “home” to use his own weapons against her. He could not lose this opportunity to do her harm, not again. He had leverage and barbs and he could set traps. He rubbed his knuckles harshly across his face.

As Draco walked back into the guest bedroom, Tippy nearly dropped a breakfast tray she’d been trying to set on a coffee table near a black and white striped sofa. She set the tray down well enough, then nearly ran into the wall stumbling away from him. “So sorry sir, I didn’t mean to be frightened, but I have brought you some food, sir, I hope you enjoy it.”

“That’s fine.” His clothes were neatly laid atop the bed and he wondered what the hell he was still doing in Pansy’s house. It was no place for him; he had to get out before he lost his mind.

“Will, would, do you need anything else, sir?” Tippy asked awkwardly.

“No, that is all.” He nodded to her and she left the room, looking very much like a drowning pigeon.

He walked to the low table and ate some porridge and a piece of dry toast. He would gain nothing from destroying Pansy or her personal property. By trying to kill her, he would merely put himself at risk again. He had no idea what he would say to his Dark Lord, but for one tiny fraction of time, he didn’t much care. He finished eating, wanting to hurry before his senses returned to him.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : 

Pansy felt like killing someone as soon as she awoke. Her head felt like she’d been drowned and the residual water was still coursing through her head. The light hurt her sensitive nerves. Her eyes flew open as soon as she was fully conscious and she flung herself out of bed. She whipped around and looked at her master bedroom.

Nothing was destroyed.

She wasn’t bleeding. She was merely bleary-eyed and weak, maybe a touch stiff. She could move every limb and nothing was burnt, nor even singed. She was fine.

She was alive.

So what the hell had actually happened the night before? Perhaps she didn’t remember properly. Maybe she was deluded, still illogical, irrational, or maybe drunk. But Pansy was rarely drunk; she couldn’t allow herself that luxury, that bit of vulnerability. She knew what had happened, and it was confirmed for her when one of her House Elves, Tippy, came quietly into the room.

“Hello, mistress, good morning, hoping I am not waking you, oh you are up, mistress, that is good.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes at the fawning House Elf. Then she sighed. “What happened to me, Tippy?”

“I am not sure, mistress. Wes found you asleep on the floor, and the Master Malfoy was there too, mistress, and you were both damaged and bleeding and wes were so afraid for you! Thanking heavens you are alive, mistress. We healed you as we could, and wes hope you do not feel so poorly today.”

“Kind of you to say,” Pansy replied primly.

“I can draw a bath if my lady wishes, or I can lay out clothing or I can bring up a tray, or even start a lovely shower, mistress?”

“A shower.” She needed to be alert and roused before Draco was. She had to be ready to kill him if that was required. She had to be ready for every eventuality. She felt too imbalanced for anything more than a cup of tea and a shower. She was a mess, a bundle of tension and chaos that no one could see. She felt that if someone dared look at her, she would look like a wild cloud of flying particles, and she hated to not be in control.

She needed to collect herself. Tippy rushed to start the shower and Pansy ran her hands through her hair distractedly and confusedly. She was surely going mad.

Tippy tripped her way back into the room and her mistress nodded curtly before walking into the bathroom. Her bathroom felt like a dungeon to her, which was part of its charm. She liked the black and grey marble and the silver fixtures and the deep lighting. She could appreciate the dark and eerie beauty that emanated from it.

She took off her nightgown and stepped quickly into the steaming shower, closing the thick door behind her. She stood underneath the shower head and let the water stream onto her face and into her nose and mouth, entirely unsure whether or not she was trying to drown herself. 

She shook herself, allowing the water to work its way down all of her, and she washed. She was not sure at which point she got soap in her eyes, and she wasn’t sure if her tears were of cleansing or of pain.

Pansy stepped out of the shower and shut it off, drying herself quickly with magic. She dressed in what were, to her, clothes only to wear indoors; it almost looked as though she were wearing a tunic and housecoat. They were, of course, in shades of green and grey. 

She pocketed her wand and put on hard-soled slippers. She made her way quietly downstairs, listening with every lithe step. She heard nearly nothing, not even running water. Pansy then went down the back staircase into the kitchen, nearly frightening two House Elves to death.

They set about making her eggs, porridge, toast, and bacon. She sat rigidly in a chair, looking at the ceiling and low chandelier, listening for any sound. She did not even hear a mouse, which was as she expected. Mice were not permitted in the Parkinson household.

Her House Elves set a plate in front of her, startling her out of her concentration. She put the crystal goblet to her mouth and drank the bitter juice it held. She grimaced, and a House Elf asked if everything was alright.

“Has Draco Malfoy woken up yet?” she asked.

“Oh, no, mistress,” said a House Elf named Lonny. “I don’t believe he has, but I assures you we will inform you when he does, if it please you.”

“Yes, thank you.” Pansy did not make eye contact with him for fear of his collapse. She tended to accidentally frighten her servants.

“Umm, mistress, here is your Daily Prophet.” Lonny slid it near her goblet as she bit into a piece of bacon. She tried not to crunch it as she listened intently for footsteps.

Pansy was halfway through her meal when she grew tired of staring at the ceiling. She moved the paper in front of her and opened it, merely to have something more interesting at which to look. She flipped open the front page as she raised hr goblet and she almost dropped them both.

A tiny smile crossed her stern-looking face. She felt her lips crack even as she did so, but nothing about that troubled her. She blinked and moved her plate away for better inspection of the paper, her saving grace. She suddenly felt much less vindictive than she ever had in her life. She cracked her hand against the table accidentally, but she didn’t care enough to spout any expletives.

Apparently all needs for caution were now null. Pansy gave the paper to Lonny and moved her plate back to finish her breakfast. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too widely as she bid Lonny to make sure the paper made its way upstairs.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Draco began dressing as he flipped open the creased page of the paper. He almost yelled aloud at the outrageous claims of the headline. The photographs actually made him take a step back. In the middle of the moving picture was bloody sodding Potter, dirty and tired but smiling. Beside him was a motley crew of people, mostly sorry-looking barely-adults and teachers who’d been forced into retirement. They were grouped in a ragged half-circle, waving or smiling or crying as each respective circumstance required.

He saw Granger, with a crazed and nearly manic look in her eye; he supposed it was glee, as, in the picture, Granger was clutching the hand of the Weasley ape. Ah, Weasley, stupid Weasley. He somehow had what looked like ash all over his face and he was grinning like a brain-dead monosyllabic creature who could only grunt and, alternately, look stupid. And there was the youngest Weasley, with a strange wave or curtain of hair streaming down her shoulders; her face was set, almost stern, and she looked like one touch would send her reeling over a precipice. The rest of the sad lot looked like they belonged in some ragtag Jacquerie, screaming and singing while chopping off heads in some brutal bloodlust.

And Potter. Yes, Potter. Draco had once vowed that he would kill Potter, but hadn’t managed thus far. And now it appeared he never would. Potter, who couldn’t even manage to take all the advantages offered to him at Hogwarts, was little more than a mere child. In the photograph, he looked as though his legs were folding underneath him. He looked about to die.

Draco was focusing on the photograph so he could avoid absorbing the truth that was seeped in the headline.

His eyes traced it vaguely, then he brushed it with his fingertips. He ran one finger over every letter, then across every word. Then he laughed in a way that would have sent chills and palpitations through anyone who had ever known him. Most people had never seen him involved in any type of humor that didn’t involve blasting people, maligning people, or generally hurting someone.

Draco came to a conclusion: he was surely going mad. Totally dotty! And dotty was not a word Draco used lightly. He had to be reading the words wrong. He looked at them again and grew more confident that it was the photograph that was moving, not the headline.

“Voldemort Defeated by The Chosen One, Order of the Phoenix.”

Draco nearly collapsed as the possibility of everything that sentence contained hit him across the face. His mother could leave St. Mungo’s. Draco wouldn’t be annihilated for not killing Pansy. He didn’t have to kill anyone. He didn’t have to follow anyone blindly anymore, or risk pain beyond imagining. He didn’t have to fear, not in the ways he’d always known fear. Fear didn‘t have to be a prerequisite in his life. He didn’t have to kill to survive.

He could leave now, having caused no lasting harm. Perhaps Pansy could one day understand him. He would not even see her to say good-bye. That raised the possibility of her wrath or her sadness. He didn’t want someone to need to rely on him. He finally wanted freedom.

He didn’t even have to pretend to kill her. He also didn’t have to marry her. He didn’t have to live with two sour, dour children he neither liked or respected simply so he could have an heir and a spare. He didn’t have to stay ahead or risk death. He didn’t have to be afraid of being toppled off a pedestal. He didn’t have to worry about growing old with only Pansy for company, knowing neither of them liked one another. He didn’t have to die unloved.

What he did have to do was get off the floor, stop crying from shock, and get dressed. Then he could leave, no harm done.

For the first time in a long while, Draco smiled out of contentment.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : 

Pansy continued to sit at the table, though she thought she heard Draco leave, which was all just as well for her. She no longer had any desire to maim or subvert Draco, his reputation, his property, or his feelings. She would not prove just how correct she’d been. She did not need to watch Draco dissemble in his feelings, nor did she need to watch him admit his defeat. She no longer needed someone else to make her feel powerful or good. She did not need to cause pain to another simply to feel a tingle of love for herself.

She could show her feelings without fear that someone would mock her or taunt her. She no longer needed to do the same to someone else. She did not have to feign love when she felt nothing of the sort. She didn’t need to pretend to even LIKE someone if her feelings came short of that mark.

She had grown and she could forgive. Forgiving was painful, but made it easier to forget. She thought she might like the gentle forgetting that age allowed her. She thought she might like to grow old.


End file.
